For Guilt
by meressefers
Summary: There was a time when Hogwarts' Potions Master was an unwanted child, an aspiring Deatheater, and a mischievous student to boot. This is his story.
1. Prologue: Ablution

DISCLAIMER: Everything's JKR's.  
  
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For Guilt  
  
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers  
  
Prologue: Ablution  
  
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He was the only child.  
  
Oh, the sadness that came of that! There was no other progeny to absorb all of his parents' love, no sibling to call usurper. The bleak truth was, his parents did not love him, and there was no one to blame but himself.  
  
This does not ring so bitterly now for Severus. He is used to blaming himself. There is much to feel guilty for, too. Thoughts of everything that has happened reverberate through his mind constantly. How could such things have occurred? Why? Mostly, he asks himself what things might have been. Could his life have been any different? The idea plagues him to no end.  
  
It makes little difference now; the past is done and over with. Let bygones be bygones, as Albus would say. Severus can do little but silently nod to his mentor. Dumbledore will never understand it completely, the sense of failure and contrition that has embedded itself so deeply in Severus' soul. If there is such thing as a soul. Severus has long been a disbeliever, and even his skeptical convictions are wrong, he is sure he would not have a soul. No man such as he would.  
  
He does not fear death; it is the only way to be cleansed. 


	2. I: A Sad Neglect

DISCLAIMER: Everything's JKR's, with a few irrelevant exceptions.  
  
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For Guilt  
  
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers  
  
Part I: A Sad Neglect  
  
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Even before he reached the tender age of five, Severus knew of his parents' lack of affection for him.  
  
It was a cold, hard fact, written in the air as a royal edict carved in stone, and his parents were cold, hard people. Ashur and Drusilla Snape. Model Slytherins, the both of them, and they expected Severus to be the same. Perhaps they thought that coldness was the only way to instill the proper hatred in their son. Perhaps they feared to grow too close to him; having lived through the reign of Grindelwald, they knew of the impermanence of life. Perhaps Severus was merely an unwanted being. Severus suspects it was the latter.  
  
In any case, their concern was for themselves and not their child. They mostly considered their appearance, not only as an upright Pureblooded family, but also their physical looks. It was part of the scheme of things. There were mirrors everywhere in the Snape mansion, so that Ashur would never have a steel-gray hair out of place, and Drusilla could admire the contrast between her fair skin and her robes wherever she went. She always wore dark green and silver. They all did.  
  
Severus was made to wear the same expensive robes as his parents. He hated the formal frivolity of it all, just as he hated seeing his reflection stare back at him from every wall of every room. The long, pale face; the overlarge nose; the limp black hair that hung uncomfortably, having been cut recently. His hair was trimmed every six weeks in the manner of his father's. It would not do for a Snape to look mangy, unkempt. That was the extent of his parents' care.  
  
Severus remembers the day he was weaned of his infantile nightie and placed in proper attire. He, precocious toddler that he was, had immediately run out of doors, glad to be free of one childish tie. The weather had been dreary that day, and no sooner had the little boy stepped outside than it started to rain. Dismally, he trudged back inside, his new robe trailing through mud and water. Ashur beat him for marring the costly fabric, and Severus quickly learned his lesson. He would not give his father cause to punish him again.  
  
With this resolution in mind, Severus took to hiding in the library, where no one ever went except for the house elf who dusted it daily. It was a peaceful, silent place, filled from floor to ceiling with countless volumes. There were no windows and only one mirror.  
  
Severus pored over book after book, pondering over every picture and the shape of every word. He sat on an old wooden chair; Ashur's fine leather armchair, embossed with a serpentine S, posed to forbidding a seat.  
  
Once Severus learned how to read, the library became even more of a haven to him. Books were no longer just sheaves for beautiful pictures; they were inviting worlds were Severus could lose himself. The history of the world and its magic enthralled him, as did the growth of fantastic plants. But mostly, Severus was absorbed into those disciplines he could not practice: potions and the Dark Arts, especially curses. When he was taken over by perverse and unattainable whims, it was such subjects that comforted him. He read of the Furnunculus Curse and thought of his vain mother's face erupting in boils; she would certainly despise the sight of herself and take down those hateful mirrors. The ingredients necessary for a love potion sparked an image of his father falling for a house elf; Ashur considered his elves dirty, contemptible creatures and only kept them as a status symbol.  
  
In spite of all this, however, Severus was desperately trying to stir the affections of his parents. If they knew what a clever and thoroughly Slytherin son they had, would they love him?  
  
That never came to be. Severus looks back on this now and is not surprised, but at the time, he knew it was his own fault. What else could have made him no better than an orphan? Ashur and Drusilla were infallible in his mind, which was still childish despite his wealth of knowledge. The guilt lay with Severus; he was not good enough for his parents. Therefore, he tried all the harder to surpass his previous achievements. He memorized -- memorized! -- every spell and charm and curse, and the recipes for any potion he could find. Whenever he was given leave to speak in his parents' presence, which was not often, he spouted off some obscure and impressive fact. Yet they paid him no more heed than before, and purposeless despair crept upon the boy. All his efforts were a waste. He was a waste.  
  
When he was eleven years old, he received an owl bearing a letter.  
  
"Mr. Severus Snape," it ran. "You have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."  
  
Here was a chance to prove himself. Here was an escape. 


	3. II: Never a Limit

A/N: Finally, an update! Unfortunately, I can't possibly imagine that I'll finish this before Order of the Phoenix comes out, and I'm sure my story will contradict that in oh-so-many ways... *sweat drops* Aha! Alternate universe! Problem averted.  
  
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For Guilt  
  
II: Never a Limit  
  
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On September the First, 1970, a quick-stepping servant led Severus to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and left.  
  
Looking around himself, Severus felt a loneliness more intense than the norm. Here were whole, loving families exchanging hopeful farewells, children clinging to mothers and fathers as if it were the end of the world. It unnerved Severus. He did not belong in this place with all this happiness. He would burst, pouring forth tears and anger and all the resentment that boiled inside him. His parents would be most displeased by such conduct.  
  
His thoughts were finally brought to an end by the incessant hooting of owls. Severus did not have one; his father had thought enough to purchase textbooks and, of course, crisp new robes. Expensive ones, the kind that could have paid for an owl several times over. Appearances were everything, after all. Bitterly, Severus tried to make the best of it. Who would want such an annoying bird? he asked himself. The hoots could drive one to distraction. Besides, it wasn't like he had anyone back home with whom he could communicate.  
  
He got on the train as quickly as he could, pushing his way through the insipidly smiling crowd. Surprisingly, Severus discovered that the better portion of the students were already on board; he had trouble finding a place to sit. In the end, he sat in one of the backmost cars with a boy his own age and a much older girl, perhaps going into her seventh year. They introduced themselves as Evan Rosier and Narcissa Rookwood; cousins, although they bore as much resemblance to each other as day and night. Narcissa wore a cold, fair look, whereas Evan was of an almost exotically swarthy coloring. Before they introduced themselves, however, they posed a question to Severus:  
  
"Are you a Pureblood?"  
  
Severus stalled. The eyes of the boy and girl bore into him with a ruthless, even contemptuous anticipation. Finally, he found his voice. "Yes, of course," he proclaimed uncertainly. Silence. They still watched him, and it made him uneasy. "M-may I sit here?"  
  
The girl ignored his inquiry and continued. "Are you a Slytherin?"  
  
"Yes," said Severus. He was sure of it. He HAD to be a Slytherin.  
  
"Then you lie. I have never seen you before."  
  
"I'm a first-year."  
  
"Then you guess," piped in the boy.  
  
"You've been making the same assumption all summer, Evan," said the girl. She turned back to Severus. "What is your family name?"  
  
"Snape."  
  
At this, the corners of the girl's mouth turned up ever so slightly. "You'll be Slytherin with a name like that. Sit." Though piqued at being ordered to do so, Severus took a seat. The three adolescents swapped names, and the train started off.  
  
***  
  
The train reached Hogsmeade just as the sun began to set. Severus, Evan, and Narcissa disembarked, the girl wittily disparaging every other student that crossed their path.  
  
"Ludo Bagman...blithering idiot, just like his brother," she said, pointing to a jovial blond boy. "Davy Gudgeon...he's even more stupid. Agatha Spinnet --" a girl with a cascade of red-gold curls walked by -- "she thinks she's hot stuff for the daughter of a Mudblood." Narcissa cast an opprobrious gaze around. "Ugh." They kept walking -- not that they got very far through the crowd -- and another girl accidentally bumped into them.  
  
"Excuse me," the girl said quietly, looking at the three with anxious eyes. "I didn't mean to."  
  
"Why don't you watch where you're going next time?" snapped Evan with a cruelty that took Severus aback. The girl looked at Evan with a blank face except for those fearful eyes and walked away as quickly as possible.  
  
Narcissa wrinkled her nose. "That girl looked just like Professor Figg. If she hadn't been afraid of her own damn shadow, I'd swear she was the bitch's daughter."  
  
"Who's Prof--" Severus began, confused. However, he was cut short by a booming voice a little ways from the train.  
  
"First years, over here!" it called, coming from a gigantic man with a bushy beard and a grin. He held up a lantern. "Come now -- don't be shy." Narcissa, Evan, and Severus parted way, and the two boys approached the man, filled with the hopes of a great new beginning. 


End file.
